


Last Request

by vanillafluffy



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Blind Character, Blindness, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Loss, Not Canon Compliant, Self-Harm, radio dj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Slightly alternate ending where Bane doesn't die in the Wayne Building.





	Last Request

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/gifts).



No one else has showed up at the station in five days. It’s just me. I do the best I can to keep things running. Usually, I’m the ten to six DJ, but now I catnap between playlists, covering all the shifts. 

I know where Malik, the maintenance guy keeps the key to the vending machines; I’ve been living off stale peanut butter and cheese crackers and random candy bars for days now. The hell with it--they can take it out of my paycheck, if there’s anyone left to pay me.

Outside the four walls of W-GCR, things still seem chaotic. I have a police scanner app on my phone; I’ve been listening to emergency calls and trying to sound reassuring. I’m not entirely sure anyone is listening. The request line seldom rings, hasn’t rung since yesterday--or was it the day before? The lack of sleep.is disorienting.

There are conflicting broadcasts on the police band--rioting in the streets, cops versus criminals, the neutron bomb is going to detonate today, according to the terrorist, Bane. Bane is battling The Bat, The Bat is dead, the bomb has gone off over the bay, Bane is dead, Bane has escaped but his confederates are dead…it’s difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff.

So I do my job.

“This is DeeDee Dennis spinning the golden oldies on W-GCR, where Gotham City rocks! Next up, we have some Journey--’Don’t Stop Believing’….”

These days “the oldies” are anything prior to the Millennium. In other words, the tunes of my youth…

My hands are shaking from tiredness and hunger, making it hard to read the labels on the music files. I’m way past the age when I can party for days on end, much less concentrate on work. I’m reduced to spelling out the Braille labels one letter at a time, and it's only R-E-M. I'm being excruciatingly careful to return the right files to the right cases or I’ll be completely lost. Good thing there’s a long commercial break coming up, it’s liable to take me that long to cue up the next track.

The incoming line chimes softly. Well, what do you know--someone to talk to at last!

“Hello, caller!” I greet them enthusiastically. “This is W-GCR, where we spin rock and roll gold. What would you like to hear?” There’s a long pause. I hear labored breathing. Obscene caller? I’d almost welcome that at this point, but no, it sounds like they’re in distress. “Hello? Caller?”

”I wanted you to know, DeeDee, that I’ve been listening to you.”

I’m instantly more wide-awake than I’ve been in days. I recognize the throaty voice with its odd inflections, and it chills me. It’s that terrorist: Bane.

“Thank you,” I respond, trying to keep my tone level. I set the case down on the counter and reach for the soundboard, carefully counting switches. Keeping things in order is suddenly much less important than documenting this call. “I haven’t had a lot of callers lately.”

We can record any incoming calls for playback. I haven’t needed it lately, but now I turn it on, hand shaking worse than ever. Whatever demands he’s about to make, I’ll have a record of it.

“I wanted to compliment you.” His voice is more strained than during the broadcasts he’s made. “”I admire...your grace under pressure. You’ve been very…helpful…in keeping…the good citizens of Gotham…calm.”

“That’s my job,” I say quietly. “What do you want me to tell them now? Or do you have a message you want me to broadcast?”

“You know…who I am?”

“I doubt if anyone really knows that…but I recognize your voice.”

There’s a ghastly sound, something between a chuckle and a death-rattle. My gran died of lung cancer; I know what failing lungs sound like. “Very good.”

“Which makes me really curious as to why you’re calling me.” And then, because I’m over-tired and the bottom line is, this is the guy responsible for that, I dial up the sarcasm. “Was there a song you wanted to hear?”

“No. I don’t care for your sort of music.” 

“What, then?”

“I wanted to thank you.” Is he on drugs? No, by the sound of him, he could use some. “My Talia…she liked your music. She would listen to it…while we waited for this day.” A shuddering groan. “Every night…your show. You played…a slow song…” More coughing, wet, terrible coughs and I flinch. “We danced…it was the last time I held her in my arms.” He wheezes. 

When the crisis began, I’d had a description of Bane from a co-worker: all muscles, shoulders like an ox, wearing some kind of terrifying mask. I don’t think he’s wearing it now. Nothing seems to be filtering the noises he makes, trying to breathe.

“Have you ever known loss?” he asks abruptly.

Do I know loss? I never knew my mother. My dad died in the army. My gran passed from cancer a few years later. My ex-fiance cheated on me with my former best friend. And let’s not forget what I lost in the fear gas attack, when I gouged out my own eyes rather than see the monsters around me. Know loss? I could write a fucking book. 

“Yes,” I reply shortly. “So what? As my gran used to say, boiling water softens the potato but hardens the egg.” 

Another gurgling laugh. “You have rare courage, DeeDee. So did she…my beautiful Talia…the only one…I ever loved. All my life, I protected her. Now she’s gone.” The pauses between words are growing longer. “There’s nothing left for me. I have one bullet remaining. I will die a free man. I merely wanted to let you know…I appreciated---that last dance….”

There’s a beep, signaling the call has dropped. I reach over and stop the recording. 

After a moment, the shaking stops. I spin my chair around, trying to decide what to play next, what would be appropriate? “Last Dance” seems awfully trite. “Sympathy for the Devil”? Hmm…no. There are a ridiculous number of things I can think of, based on the brief conversation: “Renegade”, “Freebird”. Maybe “Time in a Bottle”?

Bane admitted he doesn’t care for rock and roll. There’s no point over-thinking it, I tell myself. 

When the commercial ends, I key the mike and prepare to press ‘play’. “This next song is for someone who recently lost a loved one.” 

One keystroke and REM fills the air-waves.

_This one goes out to the one I love--_

…


End file.
